


So You’re Stuck on a Floating City with Your Decoy…

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: BioShock Infinite Kink Meme, Blow Jobs, Kink Meme, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Self-cest, selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:35:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever is a war veteran and former Pinkerton agent to do? A one-shot written specifically as a fill for the <a href="http://infinitekink.dreamwidth.org/">BioShock Infinite Kink Meme</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So You’re Stuck on a Floating City with Your Decoy…

To be honest, it’s like looking into a mirror. Same height and build, same salt-and-pepper hair; same square, handsome face, green eyes, strong jaw… Even their clothes, the weapons they carry—even those are the same!

Now, if only a mirror were the cause of this…this _strangeness_.

“Who are you?”

The reflection just smirks. “I could ask you that, but we both know the answer. I’m you.”

“And I’m…you.”

“And we’re—”

Booker DeWitt. Ex-Pinkerton agent, former member of the 7th Cavalry of the United States Army, and presently, trapped in a floating city while on a job for a mysterious man in New York—which is a different sort of strangeness entirely. But _both_ of them? At the same time?

“No.” Booker shakes his head. “You’re just a—”

“A fake? A decoy?”

“Yeah.” No point in lying, is there? Not in front of someone who can decipher every single tell that gives him away. “How do you know?”

“I overheard you talking to the girl. I don’t get it much myself, but—” The decoy looks around. “Where is she, anyway?”

“In the other room, asleep,” Booker answers.

“Sure that’s smart?”

“We’re safe enough in here.”

_Here_ is an abandoned residence in an upscale part of Columbia. Even with the hits it has taken from all the ensuing chaos, the small mansion still looks miles more impressive than anywhere Booker has actually lived. There was even still food in the icebox, clothes in the closets, and sheets on the beds. Elizabeth only went to sleep in the master bedroom after Booker insisted that she do so while he took up security watch—but then they argued about when _he_ would get sleep.

_(“I don’t need a lot of sleep. I was in the Army.”_

_“So? Mr. DeWitt, you have to get some rest or you’ll be disadvantaged when it counts!”_

_“Elizabeth, I’ll be_ fine _—”)_

But stubborn as she always is, she would not let the matter rest until the familiar glimmer of a tear caught her eye. And within it—

“It ain’t like it’s a bad idea,” says the decoy.

“It attracts too much attention,” Booker answers. “The Founders. The Vox—”

“Both know they can’t just charge in and attack you,” says the decoy, closing the distance between them. “You’ve got Shock Jockey traps set up against every doorway and window. You’re geared up enough to arm a small militia. And Elizabeth, well—we both know what she’s capable of, so you just sit. Relax a little bit. Matter of fact, get some sleep.”

Booker scoffs. “Yeah, right. Last person I’d trust to watch me sleep is my own damn shadow.”

The decoy just smirks at him again. “‘Fraid I’m gonna slit your throat and hand the girl back over to Comstock?”

He doesn’t want to admit it out loud, but that _is_ pretty close to what Booker is thinking. After all, Elizabeth could have pulled the decoy from any timeline, supposing that he’s finally understanding her powers correctly. Who is to say she didn’t pull one from an alternate universe where his reputation and his habits are even more troublesome than they already are?

_How much worse off can you really be?_

Booker can think of a few ways, and that in itself troubles him. He clears his throat and sits down on the lid of the chest at the foot of the bed. He studies the decoy, who has since moved over to the bookshelf covering one of the few windows _not_ set up to fry some poor idiot alive. It’s…strange, for lack of a better word, seeing (essentially) himself from the back. It isn’t exactly every day one gets the opportunity without a mirror and much flexibility, after all, and now that Booker has the opportunity, it’s…

He’s…

He never quite realized how tall he actually is. Or how broad his shoulders actually are. Or how well his clothes, despite being in need of repair, actually fit on his frame.

_Vanity is a sin, you know._

A soft chuckle escapes out of Booker. As if _that’s_ the worst of his sins.

“Something funny, friend?”

“Nothing,” Booker answers. “Thinking.”

“About?”

A conversation he once overheard while he was in the military, during a moment when there was nothing to shoot at and nowhere to go.

_(“Hey. Say you had a chance to meet your exact duplicate in a room. He’s exactly like you in every way.”_

_“Okay.”_

_“You could do anything you want and nobody would find out.”_

_“What’s this getting at?”_

_“Well? Would you fight him or fuck him?”_

_“What?”_

_“Exactly what I said. Would you fight him or—?”_

_“What the hell, are you some kind of fairy?”_

_“Now hang on! Hang on. Think about it. He’s your perfect duplicate. He’s you. If you fight him, he knows everything you do. He knows all your tricks. Neither of you would win. At least, y’know, if you fuck him, he knows everything about what you like.”_

_“So you’d fuck yourself if you had the chance.”_

_“I—I didn’t say that, but…but I’d consider it.”_

_“Heh. Fuckin’ fairy.”_

_“Shut the fuck up! Like you wouldn’t, given half the chance, with your head so far up your own ass. We all know how you like to handle boredom.”_

_“What’s that supposed to mean?”)_

Exactly what it was supposed to mean; the practice was so common but it was never discussed. It was taboo to talk about how some of the men relieved their stress. It wasn’t even a matter of affection. Men just have certain needs, and in the absence of regular methods, they will find other ways to satisfy them.

Not that Booker himself ever…

_Well, maybe not_ ever _._

Maybe not just to the extent of others. He _is_ a man, after all, and men have needs. Sometimes, a hand isn’t enough to deal with them.

_Getting ideas?_

No, not necessarily.

Maybe.

Possibly.

It _has_ been quite a while, hasn’t it?

_You sure know how to pick the worst opportunities, don’t you?_

Trying to push his thoughts aside, Booker studies the decoy again. Maybe it’s less like looking in a mirror and more like seeing himself as others do for the first time. It seems that what they see is a tall man of fit build and broad shoulders, with a handsome face and silver sneaking gracefully into his brown hair. They see a man who walks with even pace and sure steps, a man who—despite being the occasional whirlwind of self-destruction—still manages to carry himself well. They see foolhardiness masquerading as overwhelming confidence. They see a rough-and-tumble kind of man. Someone who can hold his own in a fight.

No wonder women seem to chase after him so eagerly. No wonder, either, that other men seem more than willing to test their mettle against him.

_Yeah, but this isn’t about_ them _. This is about_ you _. Would you fight him? Or would you fuck him?_

The last thing he needs is one more enemy—especially when that enemy is virtually his own shadow. Then again, this is hardly the time or the place to get curious, what with the whole of Columbia breathing down their necks. And then there’s Elizabeth, fast asleep in the next room—

_Across the hall. With the door closed._

Doesn’t matter. There’s a chance she’s a light sleeper.

_You saying you forgot how to be quiet?_

“What this?” When did the decoy get so close? How is it that his hand, despite having the same sort of roughness as Booker’s own, is so gentle? “What happened to your hand?”

Booker jerks his hand back. He isn’t as lucky escaping from the decoy a second time, getting his wrist trapped in a grip that feels much too firm and all too familiar. His attempt to fend off having the makeshift bandage unwrapped is simply swatted away. The hired gun winces as the cold air brushes across the sensitive wound. He stifles a small groan when the decoy brushes a finger along the side of the incision in the palm—though the sensation isn’t entirely painful.

“You’ve got some kind of dumb luck, having your hand still work after something like this. Blood looks like it’s stopped, at least.” Still holding to Booker’s wrist, the decoy removes the red ascot around his neck and spits into it. “Doesn’t even look infected.”

“I’ve got plenty of luck. More than I sh—” Another soft groan escapes him as his makeshift nurse clears away the dried blood. “You know all about that, don’t you?”

The decoy makes no sound, but some quiet amusement is lighting up those green eyes—and for better or worse, Booker knows its source. They _are_ exact duplicates of each other, aren’t they? Same height, same build, same face—

Same memories…

Why not the same motives?

Or even the same desires?

Or rather, not so much the same desires as just the same… _needs_.

It happens wordlessly. With Booker’s wrist still in hand, the decoy leans down. Lips land tentatively and, finding no initial resistance, press against lips that are much more receptive than their owner anticipated. Which is not to say that there isn’t _some_ reluctance; the part of Booker that still sees this as a very bad idea keeps his lips firmly shut, despite his doppelganger’s best efforts. It takes the full weight of his would-be lover straddling across his lap to make Booker audibly gasp—and provide the way for a much more encouraging kiss. Booker tenses. He tries to ignore the way every nerve in his body is switching on. He fights to stifle a shiver in response to the hands running through his hair. He strives—oh, how he _strives_ —to get the nerve to push this idiot off him. It should be so easy! A simple raise of the arms, a simple placement of hands on shoulders, a hard _push_ —

So why hasn’t he done it yet? Why are his hands instead running over the body straddled above him, feeling every familiar inch as if searching for something new, something to reveal a difference between them? Why is he instead reveling in the little whimpers and moans he elicits when he digs his fingers into the decoy’s hips? Why, if he _really isn’t interested_ , is Booker kissing back just as fiercely? Has it really been that long without human contact? Is he really just that desperate? He manages to mumble some halfhearted protest before the decoy’s mouth takes his again, warm and inviting. There’s the taste of cigarettes and liquor, but if it’s from his own mouth or the one kissing him, he isn’t sure. More to the point, he doesn’t quite care. Not anymore, anyway.

“ _Fuck_ , this—this is crazy—”

“But it’s what you want…isn’t it?” The decoy’s mouth is pressing kisses along his jaw, inching closer to his earlobe. “Just relax—”

The pain of the little nip makes Booker jump and cry out. The dark, breathy chuckle his shock inspires makes his cock twitch in his pants. And when there begins a slow grind against his hips—

“Oh, G-God— _fuck_ —”

Booker shuts his eyes and leans back against the bed’s wireframe footboard. Why resist? He feels the buttons on his shirt coming open. The cool air brushes across increasingly exposed skin. Warm, roughened fingers follow where the air visited and map out familiar territory. They revisit old scars from a new perspective. Almost lovingly, they trace out the lines left by war, by angry rioters, and countless bar brawls. The mouth and tongue follow next, finding delight in leaving the soft imprint of teeth in his collarbones and in the sensitivity of his nipples. It takes a strong effort not to moan loudly, to keep himself just to the occasional whispered curse, because _oh, God, it just feels so good_. God in Heaven help him—if God in Heaven even still cares about him—but it does. And maybe part of it is the dry spell he’s experienced but maybe part of it, too, really is from who is doing it to him. After all, who knows you better than yourself?

Who better than himself could get him this breathless and hot so quickly, with his eyes already nearly rolling to the back of his head with so simple a motion?

“Fuckin’ sh-shit—” He gasps at the sudden presence of the hand between his legs. His eyes flutter shut again as the decoy gingerly strokes the bulge forming in crotch of his pants. “Y-you’d better—be sure you— D-don’t start what y’cant—”

“I plan to. Just tell me what you want.”

“What I—?” Booker blinks, trying to think through the rising haze of lust. “What I want?”

But the decoy only laughs a little in response, halfway to undoing his belt.  “Are you rock hard already? Or on your way to it?”

“I—o-oh— _oh_ — _fuck_ —”

Masturbation after a long dry spell is one delicious thing. Having someone else jerk you off is quite another, perhaps even more, delicious thing. But when the person jerking you off is, essentially, yourself… Booker shifts and shudders under the ministrations. He bites his lower lip to stifle the moans trying to escape his throat. He whimpers in protest when the decoy stops stroking long enough to shift off, shift next to him on the chest. In a half-lidded, haze he watches as his duplicate spits into one calloused palm before taking him back in hand again.

More stifled moans. More hushed swearing. Booker grips the bedframe tight. His hips move in time with the strokes; his skin prickles and warms from the kisses pressed to the corner of his mouth, along his jaw, up towards his ear again—

“This can’t be all you want, is it?” The decoy nuzzles the top of Booker’s ear, voice hiding mischief. The pace of the stroking slows. “I mean, we like what we like, but…you could do this to yourself.”

“Kn-knees—” Booker draws in a shaking breath.

“What?”

“Get on—your knees.” He grabs a fistful of the doppelganger’s shirt, and he pushes— _hard_. “And get to work.”

Silence.

Not quite silence.

Heavy breathing.

It takes Booker a moment to realize that it is coming from him— _definitely_ from him and not the other him that sits wide-eyed on the marble floor. How he must look to that other, with his green eyes shining, his face flushed and his breath short, half-undressed, with his dick hard and hanging out of his pants! An imperfect reflection. An inverse of sorts. A creature built of lust and desire, teetering between the restraint of just finishing himself off or taking what he wants from the other person. Something to be feared a little, maybe.

And then the decoy’s lips curl into a little smile. Booker watches as that other him shifts and crawls forward. He tries to stifle the sounds drawn out from little nips to his inner thighs through the fabric of his pants; tries not to seem too eager to help lower his pants far enough to avoid being a bother. Booker can keep himself marginally together when the decoy takes him in hand again, but that first contact of tongue to shaft threatens to undo his careful attempts to remain discreet. The warm puff of air that comes with soft laughter sends shivers running over his skin. The part of him that wants to watch is possibly the only reason he remains seated upright instead of sprawled against on the damn bedframe. Dimly, Booker figures there has to be something deeply perverse in it, wanting to watch yourself eagerly suck cock, but Booker has always enjoyed watching even in more normal situations.

Besides, when is he to get another opportunity like this?

He tangles his fingers in the decoy’s hair and tugs, generating moans that vibrate along the shaft. He pulls again, slightly harder and towards him, and lets out a breathy little moan from the feel of sliding further into the inviting warmth of the mouth around his dick. He wonders, albeit fleetingly, if he could just lift his hips to the right angle—

The rush of cool air shocks Booker into himself more than the decoy tugging his hand out of his hair. With a small grunt, he reaches with his other hand—to get things back on track to a most glorious conclusion—only to find both wrists within that firm grip. There is a wicked little grin on those lips, one to match the mischief in those green eyes. Booker tries to form some kind of sound above a whimper or grunt, something like words—

“What—?”

It happens swiftly, with plenty of struggle on both sides, but it ends with Booker’s wrists bound tightly to the bedframe—with his own ascot twice over, no less! Booker tries to pull free but he knows it’s pointless. The knots are as sure as he is hard.

“What the _fuck_?”

“We’re not the patient kind, but try to be.”

That wicked grin! The knowing laughter. In the middle of a kiss, the decoy strokes him once, twice; Booker can’t resist a frustrated moan into that mouth that is so like his own.

“Trust me.” That mouth so like his own presses into his neck. There is, momentarily, the warmth of breath, the raking of teeth across the skin just before the pleasurable pain of a bite. “You’ll get what you want.”

“Tru—trust you—” Booker exhales short and sharp. “Trust myse—elf—”

More possessive kisses. More territorial nips. Down, down, deliberately slow— _frustratingly_ so! And made all the worse by having his wrists bound, surely. Booker shifts. He pulls at his bonds. He moans and whimpers.

And when that wandering mouth, those wandering fingers so like his own, finally get where he wants them to be?

The bedframe digs into Booker’s back. He clenches his fists tight enough to make the wound in his palm ache. His teeth dig so deeply into his bottom lip from the effort of stifling every moan and whine that he can taste the copper tang of blood on his mouth. But none of the pain registers. Not in the wash of pleasure drawn out by every kiss trailing up the underside of his shaft. How can he feel any pain when his nerves are too busy processing how _good_ the tongue swirling around the head of his cock feels?

Booker’s ability to process anything other than lustful euphoria starts to break down the moment he feels the warmth of the servicing mouth envelop him. Coherent thought begins switching off. Conscious action is given over to instinct. His hips move of their own accord, stuttering, trying to find the proper rhythm and speed with which to continue the pleasurable friction. Booker’s eyes are wide open but nothing registers in his field of vision. His mouth moves, fluctuates between a tightened grimace and falling completely open, but his hearing fails to register the moaning profanity tumbling from his mouth.

“U-ungh—a-ah— _fuck_ —“ Booker arches as best he can despite his bonds. “D-don’t—hngh— _don’tyoufuckin’st_ —a-ah—oh, _shit—_ ”

And then he starts to really feel it.

The familiar tightening in his lower abdomen—

The rush of heat pulling in from everywhere at once—

The rapid pickup of his breathing as it tries to match the pace of his heart—

“Fuck—!”

It almost feels like lightning striking down atop his head. It rushes down his body like a flood, washing out any semblance of coherent thought or even, for just the shadow of a moment, sense of self. Every nerve is overloaded with sensation. Booker’s body tenses. Relaxes. Tenses. His eyes are shut so tight that he sees stars. His pulse pounds heavily in his ears. He can do nothing except lie half-sprawled against the bedframe and chest, feeling and feeling and _feeling_ as the flood of orgasm continues to run its course. There are gentler feelings hiding underneath the current—tugging, licking—and the possibility it presents almost gets Booker hard all over again.

_Of course he would. Because it’s what we—what he—what I… Oh, fuck it._

Booker can only groan to show his appreciation. He thinks he hears chuckling, but can’t be bothered to figure out if the sound is coming from him or his double. He can’t be bothered to do much beyond lie there as the orgasm starts receding and the aches start drifting in. It takes a fair amount of effort and quiet cursing to even assist in getting his underwear and pants back on. The stinging sensation in his right palm is the first real pain to register through the mental fog.

“Your hand’s bleeding again,” he hears himself say from outside himself. “Shit, hang on—”

Fingers calloused from a life of hard work brush feather-light across Booker’s wrists and undo the knots keeping him bound in place. They undress him out of his vest, his shirt, his undershirt without much resistance. A pair of strong arms lifts him to his feet, half-walks and half-drags him around to sit on the bed proper. It’s Booker himself who falls slowly onto his side, eyes barely able to stay open from exertion. Still, he tries. He focuses his mind on the measured, even footsteps moving about the room. Booker blinks, and he feels a heavy weight settling next to him on the edge of the bed.

“Hey—”

“Shut up.” The decoy grins a little as he rewraps Booker’s hand with the scrap of fabric from Elizabeth’s skirt. “Get your rest. I’ll keep post.”

“Post—?” Recollection breaks through the haze of exhaustion and he sits up. “Wait—”

The decoy puts one hand to Booker’s shoulder and shoves—although, surprisingly, not too hard. The grin widens into a knowing smile. “We’re both aware I’m not above tying you in place, so how ‘bout you just do us both a favor and pretend like you’re a trusting son of a bitch?”

Booker blinks in surprise. He scoffs.

And then, to his own surprise, he actually chuckles a little.

“Fine. But try anything stupid, and _you’ll_ be the one tied to this bed.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- Written as a fill for the [BioShock Infinite Kink Meme](http://infinitekink.dreamwidth.org/): _Booker takes a long look at himself and likes what he sees._
> 
> \- Also partially inspired by the Cracked article ["So You're Locked In A Room with Your Clone: Fight or Fuck?"](http://www.cracked.com/blog/human-clones-do-you-fk-or-fight)
> 
> \- Shoutout to my friend Val for offering genuine moral support as I struggled to write some of the racier bits. Smut is always a challenge for me, but one does not progress as a writer if one does not rise to meet the challenges as they appear.


End file.
